BY TAMARA MC
Most people complain when stores put out Christmas decorations “too early.”
I live for it.
While I grew up not celebrating Christmas, in adulthood, I’ve created my own relationship with the holiday season:
I find magic in the stimming. Touching, smelling, seeing, and hearing the lights, music, and textures — from fall through New Year’s, I find my own joy through intentional pilgrimages.
Some big-box stores start displaying Christmas items in late summer, and I’m there the moment those aisles transform. Velvet ribbons, glass baubles, metallic wrapping paper that crinkles — seeing Christmas already spread across the store creates a rush of anticipation that makes my entire nervous system hum. I touch every sparkly surface months before most people even think about holidays.
Candle stores become destinations. I uncap every jar, bringing them close. Some smell like molasses cookies with dark burnt sugar edges, others lean vanilla-sweet. The best ones smell like gingerbread — warm spices layered with brown sugar. In the gift bag aisle, embossed patterns create ridges under my palms. Holographic surfaces shift colors when I tilt them in the light. Glitter leaves sparkly residue on my fingertips, my eyelashes… everywhere.
When pumpkin spice lattes arrive at coffee shops, I let the aroma fill my nostrils, cinnamon and nutmeg announcing that the holiday season has officially arrived. The first sip coats my tongue with sweetness and warmth. I love everything pumpkin spice — lip gloss, lotion, body spray. I slather myself in the scent, layering it everywhere until I smell like a walking pumpkin.
Stores stock cinnamon brooms, and I pick them up, running my fingers over the bristles — stiff, prickly — raw cinnamon scent clinging to my hands. When my online orders arrive, I tear into the packaging looking for bubble wrap. I pop every single bubble: POP. POP. POP. By late November, the local radio station switches to 24/7 Christmas music. I sing along in the car — belting out “Jingle Bell Rock” at stoplights, humming through “White Christmas.” I tap the steering wheel during “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” windows down even when it’s cold.
Fresh Christmas tree stands open in parking lots with rows and rows of trees. I run my hands over needles — some soft, some sharp. Sap sticky on my fingertips. I feel like I’m walking through an evergreen forest. Kids dart ahead. Laughter. String lights outline the stand’s perimeter, glowing. I breathe in pine, while everyone chooses their perfect tree.
I love Black Friday chaos.
Crowded stores and parking lots during the holiday shopping season — the sensory overload of hundreds of people moving with purpose excites rather than overwhelms me.
Packed aisles, collective frenzy. Families sit at tables, tearing apart sticky buns, frosting on their fingers. Santa sits on his throne in the center court, children lined up to whisper wishes in his ear.
At checkouts everywhere, cashiers say “Merry Christmas.” The rhythm of those two words, the cheery optimism in their voices — that greeting becomes part of my seasonal experience. At some stores, the credit card machine beeps its approval with festive sounds. Turkey gobbles at Thanksgiving. Little jingles at Christmas.
I visit neighborhoods where holiday lights transform houses into magic. Some glow elegantly white. Others go full maximalist — every inch covered, every surface glowing. They burst in full rainbow — red, green, blue, purple, orange, all at once. Icicle lights drip like frozen water caught mid-fall. Inflatable snowmen tower in front yards, swaying slightly in the breeze. Reindeer outlined in white stand on rooftops as if ready to fly. Candy canes line entire driveways, red and white stripes glowing paths to decorated doorways. More is more.
Instagram becomes an endless scroll of Christmas trees — cotton candy pink trees with pastel perfection, displays covered in cupcake and candy decorations. I build entire forests in my mind since I can’t handle real tree logistics.
In the evenings, I wrap myself in my softest fluffy blanket and watch Hallmark Christmas movies. Snow-covered small towns. Twinkling lights. Impossibly cozy interiors. The predictable plots let my brain relax — I always know the main characters will fall in love by the end, always know the small-town bakery will be saved, always know Christmas magic will win.
However, on December 25th itself, I usually go to the only place open. I hike through the mountains, appreciating the landscape, the quiet.
A moment of regulation among the whirlwind of sensory input.
But then December 26th arrives. Crisp morning air. I wake before sunrise, excited to walk through the aisles of ornaments, wrapping paper, decorations I’ve been touching all season — everything marked down now. Extending the celebration a few more days.
New Year’s Eve brings fireworks — red bursts becoming gold, blue sparks cascading, green and purple explosions lighting up the sky. The percussion vibrates through my chest.
Then January 1st arrives, a day I love for the number 1 itself and the new beginnings it promises. A fresh start. Everything resets.
The whole cycle ready to begin again.
Bio: Tamara MC, Ph.D., is a unicornrific writer whose work has appeared in over 80 outlets, including The New York Times, Huffington Post, and Newsweek. In her glittering universe, princesses, sparkles, and all things pink hold magical power. Sign up for her mermazing mailing list: www.tamaramc.com or find her on socials @tamaramcphd
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked with *